Be Mine: Valentine Novellas to Warm The Heart

by Nicole Flockton

  She’d heard her daddy play several times a week since she was born, but only in the garage. Libby had avoided the local pub gigs since she found out she was pregnant, as much to avoid the temptation of alcohol as avoid the temptation of punching all the groupies. She’d felt threatened by the women who trailed after Daniel at the best of times, but her pregnancy hormones sent her emotions out of whack. After a couple of tearful screaming tantrums, Daniel had encouraged her to stay home. She had.

  Though it was coming home from work early one day after picking up a sick two-year-old from day-care that justified her suspicions. She hadn’t wanted to be proven right but she couldn’t unsee that. She hadn’t said a word, just carried Chloe back out to the car and driven to her mother’s house.

  This was the first time Bitter Mourning had played in a family-friendly venue. And the first time she hadn’t given two hoots about any of the groupies. He was all theirs, if they wanted him.

  The emcee introduced the next band, “I’d like to you welcome The Rick-a-billy Trio.”

  Ugh. Hillbilly music. Libby barely glanced at the three people up on stage, digging into her esky for another cold drink. An upbeat, catchy rhythm brought Libby’s attention back to the stage. A man with James Dean hair leant into the microphone, strumming on a guitar. Behind him, a woman with a short, blunt fringe wielded drumsticks. Beside them, a brightly tattooed arm wrapped around an upright double bass, was the man who’d rescued Chloe. He caught her eye and winked. Her breath caught in her throat. Ugh. Not another flirty muso.

  Rick tapped his watch as Paul strode up to the side of the stage. “Cutting it fine.”

  “It’s 4.30. I’m here.” Paul shrugged one shoulder, the other held down by his instrument bag strap.

  “It’s 4.32. We need to be professional if we’re ever gonna get a regular gig. Playing retro festivals and theme parties is all well and good but it won’t pay the bills.”

  The emcee thanked Bitter Mourning, then recorded music played through the speakers while the two bands changed places. Paul propped his instrument against the edge of the stage and passed sections of Jodie’s drum kit up to her. While she fitted the pieces together, he unzipped his double bass and took his place on stage. He quietly checked the tuning, adjusting a string that had loosened. Bloody cattle grid.

  Rick confirmed their opening number. The second song was a mystery. The three of them had been playing together long enough to know how Rick ran things. He liked to figure out which song to play as he went. They usually started with a crowd favourite, then Rick would choose songs depending on the response. He knew how to work people’s emotions like a top DJ; when they needed to slow things down and when they should keep it amped up. Paul was happy to go with the flow and leave the decisions to Rick.

  The emcee took centre stage. “I’d like to welcome The Rick-a-billy Trio.”

  Jodie tapped her sticks together to count them in. Familiar vibrations ran up Paul’s arms as he plucked out the baseline. He scanned the crowd for dancers. Rockabilly, rock-and-roll, swing. He could usually pick them out from their clothing. Encouraging people to listen was one thing, but inspiring them to dance was what it was all about.

  A couple of self-proclaimed Rick-a-billy groupies claimed a patch of grass right near the stage. They kicked and twirled, stomping down the grass underfoot. Paul recognised them from the vintage festival they’d played earlier in the year. The couple had danced to every song of the set and bought a copy of their self-produced CD after. Naomi and Andy. He remembered their names from signing the cover. Fame and fortune would be too much but he got a buzz out of having a few fans.

  A little girl ran across the grass, weaving her way through the dancing couples to a woman, sitting alone on a picnic rug. The woman placed something on the girl’s head then stood. One hand on their heads and the other hand flailing about, the mother and daughter duo danced a style that defied categorisation. A smile spread across Paul’s face. They were the damsels in distress he’d rescued earlier. The mother looked up right at that moment and their gaze locked. Libby. Her name had stuck with him. As had the colour of her eyes. The same shade of blue as his panel van. And the curve of her hip. And the way her brow had furrowed when she’d offered to guard the loo when she obviously wanted to do something else.

  Instinctively, Paul winked. That’s what he did when groupies smiled at him. A bit of flirting was good for business, so Rick insisted. That’s as far as Paul ever took it though. Just a wink. Rick took flirting to a whole other level, following through whenever he had the chance. Paul only flirted with fans from the stage. It was part of the act. They usually blushed or waved back.

  Not this woman, though. She turned her back to him and continued dancing. Her daughter spun around like a ballerina, her arms floating through the air. Neither of them danced to the music he was playing. They just danced. The little girl stopped for a moment and waved to him then continued swirling and leaping.

  As he waved back, a man joined them on the grassy dance floor. The lead singer from that crap band that had played earlier. He took the little girl’s hands and twirled her around. A happy family.

  Paul pulled his gaze away from them. He wouldn’t mind a family of his own one day. But not now. And not somebody else’s family. He played the rest of the set, losing himself in the music as the deep thrums of the baseline flowed through his arms and into his heart. Music could fill the void.

  3

  “Hello, my angel.” Daniel bent down to hug their daughter.

  Chloe threw her arms around her daddy. “I seed you singing my song!”

  “And I saw you dancing with your mummy.” He stood, grasping Chloe’s tiny hands in his and twirling her around. He met Libby’s eye. “Thanks for bringing her.”

  Libby shrugged. He might not have been a good husband, but he was an excellent father.

  “I’m gonna set up my tent now. Want a hand with yours?” Daniel nodded towards the paddock where a couple of tents had already been pitched.

  “Yeah, thanks.” She could probably manage it herself but Daniel would do a better job of holding the poles straight than Chloe. With daylight savings, the sun wouldn’t go down for ages but she might as well accept Daniel’s offer while he was sober enough to be a help rather than a hindrance. He’d never been a violent drunk, he’d always veered towards love, not war, but a few too many drinks will mess up anyone’s co-ordination.

  Libby left the picnic blanket and esky where they were and took one of Chloe’s hands. Daniel held Chloe’s other hand and the three of them skipped off to the cars to get the camping gear. Just like a happy family.

  Technically, they were a happy family. They would always be a family, regardless of where they each lived. Chloe was happy because her parents weren’t fighting. Daniel was happy because his music career was taking off. And Libby was happy because she’d bought a brand-new bed and got rid of the adultery-sheets. She hadn’t quite got rid of the image of Daniel and that woman entwined in said sheets, but she had pushed it far enough to the back of her memory that it rarely surfaced.

  Until now. She should have expected it. All the Bitter Mourning groupies would be here, why not that one? Daniel had dumped her, but she kept crawling back.

  “Hi, Daniel,” the skank purred.

  “Hey, Tess.” Daniel popped open the boot and picked up his tent, slinging the strap over one shoulder.

  “Reckon two can fit in there?” That woman ran her finger over the tent bag.

  The nerve of her. In front of Chloe. “Come on, Chloe. Help mummy carry the camping stuff.” Libby dragged her daughter over to her car and handed her a hammer. Probably not the best thing to give her, but it was the closest.

  Chloe’s face lit up. “Can I bang the nails?”

  “Sure, honey.” Libby loaded her arms with the family-sized tent and trudged over to the paddock on the other side of the driveway. She dumped the camping gear in a pile and stomped around a patch of dry grass feeling for rocks. Yeah, t
hat’s why she was stomping. For the rocks.

  No rocks.

  She stomped again, really hard, just to make sure, then hauled the tent out and unrolled it. “Chloe, it’s time to bang the tent nails.”

  Her daughter had wandered over to the driveway and was squatting in the gravel, hammer abandoned beside her, piling up the misshapen stones.

  “What are you up to?”

  “Building a house.”

  “Ooh. It looks a bit small for us to sleep in.”

  “It’s not for us, silly mummy.”

  “Who’s it for?”

  “Benji.”

  “Who’s Benji?”

  “My new friend.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Over there.” Chloe pointed back towards the car.

  “I can’t see any kids over there.”

  “Benji isn’t a kid. He’s a ‘pider.”

  “A spider?”

  “Mmm hmm.” She carefully balanced another stone on the pile.

  Libby shuddered. Scared of being left alone but not scared of spiders? Chloe definitely hadn’t picked that trait up from her, the introverted arachnophobe. “Maybe Benji will be happier where he is. You wouldn’t want him to get squashed by a car.” Libby’s foot would be a more imminent threat if she caught sight of the thing.

  Chloe stood. “Yeah. He has more space in the car.”

  IN THE CAR? Libby took a deep breath. That could be tomorrow’s problem. Right now, they needed to get this tent up. “Grab the hammer.”

  Clutching the dusty hammer to her chest, Chloe followed her mother over to the tent.

  “Can I have the hammer, please? I’ll get the pegs started and you can finish banging them in.”

  Chloe handed her the hammer, her brow furrowed. “Are we hanging out the washing first?” Chloe loved to pass Libby the pegs when they hung the laundry on the washing line.

  “Not those kind of pegs, honey. The tent nails are really called pegs.” Libby lined the first peg through the loop on the corner of the tent and tapped it into the firm ground until it was embedded halfway. “Your turn.”

  Chloe gripped the hammer with two hands, swung, and missed.

  “Try little ones. Like this.” Libby wrapped her hands over her daughter’s and guided some smaller taps, the peg inching its way into the earth. The pair banged in two more pegs together then Chloe began to squirm.

  “Are you getting bored?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Want to see if your daddy needs some help?” Or to see why he isn’t over here helping us like he’d said he would.

  “I can’t see Daddy.”

  Libby glanced over. Daniel’s two-man tent was fully erect. She prayed he wasn’t inside it in the same state. She wouldn’t have her daughter scarred in the same way she had been. “Reckon you can get the fly out of the other bag?”

  “Can I feed it to Benji?”

  “Not that kind of fly.”

  Chloe wriggled, her knees rubbing together.

  “Chloe, do you need to do a wee wee?”

  The little girl nodded.

  “Come on, I’ll take you back to the house.”

  Chloe froze.

  Libby squatted down beside her. “It’s okay. I’ll stay with you.”

  Her daughter seemed suddenly smaller. She shook her head. “Not going to the scary toilet.” Chloe’s jiggling recommenced, her face scrunching in concentration.

  Desperate, Libby looked around for support. She spotted Daniel over by the bushes at the fence-line, back towards them. She took Chloe’s hand and set off in his direction. If Daniel couldn’t help her convince Chloe to use the toilet in the house, he could at least stand guard while their daughter peed in the paddock.

  Paul carefully eased his double bass into the back of his panel van. The set had gone down well. They’d kept everyone’s attention.

  Well, almost everyone. Libby had wandered off after a couple of songs but she probably needed to take her daughter home and put her to bed. What was she? Four or five? Kids that age went to bed early, didn’t they?

  And she’d left with that bloke. Libby was spoken for. He shouldn’t even be thinking of her. Even if she was single, she was still out of bounds.

  No clients. No groupies. His self-imposed rules were cut and dried. She was a groupie. Maybe not his groupie but a groupie, nonetheless.

  Rick had no concerns about sleeping with groupies. He’d already cracked a beer and was entertaining his entourage. Paul licked his dry lips. A cold one would hit the spot about now. But he ought to set up camp first. It would take more than a few beers for him to forget how to unroll a swag but he was at the car and the light was good. Might as well get it out of the way so he could relax for the rest of the night.

  He hoisted his swag roll onto his shoulder, locked the car and crossed the driveway to the paddock. Tents were popping up all over. As he strode past a blue and grey dome tent, a little blonde head popped out from around the other side. So they hadn’t gone home.

  “Hello Sir Paul,” Chloe called, waving frantically.

  Paul stopped, hitching his bed roll back onto his shoulder. “I’m not a sir, I’m just Paul.”

  “But you rescued me so you must be a knight. That’s what they do. And all knights are called Sir.”

  “I’m a carpenter. I know how to tame timber, not dragons.”

  “I thought you were a musical knight?”

  “I play in the band, too, but most of the time I fit out houses.”

  “Do you like my outfit?” Chloe twirled around, one hand on her plastic crown so it didn’t fall off.

  Paul suppressed a chuckle. “I do.”

  “Do you make pretty dresses like this for the houses?” She grabbed a handful of her skirt and swished it around.

  “No, princess. I make skirting boards but no skirts.”

  “I’m sure you make the houses look pretty. Your arm is pretty. I like all the colours.”

  He’d never had his tattoos referred to as pretty. That wasn’t exactly what he was going for. But coming from this sweet little girl, it brought a huge grin to his face. “Thanks.”

  “What is the picture of?”

  “Um...” He was suddenly grateful that he was still holding the swag and the little girl couldn’t see the topless pin-up girl that enveloped his bicep. “Just some flames and stuff.” Maybe he should put on a shirt after he set up camp. The eight-ball and coloured flames on his forearm would be less likely to offend a little girl and her mother. Not that he cared what they thought.

  “I love fire. Mummy said I could cook more marshmallows after I eat my sausage.”

  “Where is your mummy?” Paul glanced around. If he had a kid, he wouldn’t leave them alone for this long to talk to strangers. Not that he wanted a kid. He didn’t have time for that. Between his carpentry business, rehearsals and gigs, Paul barely had time for a girlfriend let alone a family.

  “She’s in our tent blowing up the bed.” Chloe pointed at the larger canvas tent beside this one. “I got in trouble for jumping on the bed while Mummy was pushing the pump thing.” She toed the ground. “She said I should play outside for a bit near Daddy’s tent.

  “Is this your daddy’s tent?”

  “Mmm hmm.” Chloe nodded. “He’s a musical too. He does singing and made a song ‘specially for me about an angel. I’m really a princess but I can be an angel, too.”

  “Was that him you were dancing with while I was playing?” Not that it mattered. He shouldn’t be involving himself any deeper with this family. Even if it appeared that Libby had split from Chloe’s father.

  “Yup. He helped me and Mummy put the big tent up but now he goed for a walk with the lady that Mummy doesn’t like.”

  “Oh.”

  “He said they was walking near the creek at the back of the house and that I shouldn’t follow because I might fall in.”

  “I didn’t know there was a creek here.” And he doubted the creek was the real reason Daniel didn�
�t want his daughter to follow. Daniel sounded a bit like Rick.

  “Yeah. I haven’t seed it. Mummy said I should stay in the front paddock for safeness.”

  “Well, that sounds like a good idea to me.”

  “I’m gonna go play with Benji now.”

  “Is he your friend?”

  “Mmm hmm. Bye.” She waved and skipped away to the other side of the family tent.

  Paul looked down at the patch of trampled grass between the two tents. There was plenty of space right here to camp. Nope. He trudged off across the paddock and rolled out his swag near the fence-line. Far away from temptation. And near a clump of bushes in case he needed a pit stop in the middle of the night. Maybe not that close. Some others might have the same idea. Especially if they didn’t want to risk falling in the creek in the dark. He dragged his bedroll a few metres closer to the driveway and pegged it down. Now it was definitely beer-o’clock.

  4

  Libby wiped the sweat from her brow and continued pressing the foot pump. Inflating the queen-sized mattress out in the breeze would have been much more comfortable, but then she’d never get it into the tent. It wasn’t really a camping mattress. She’d bought it as a spare bed for when her parents came to visit, but Daniel had taken their camping gear when they split so she had to make do with what she had. Her dad had given her the old tent her family had used when she was a kid. It wasn’t streamlined and lightweight like the tent Daniel got custody of but it was functional.

  Libby pressed her fingers into the air bed. Firm and springy. She’d only pumped up one of the layers but that would do. It was only one night. She lined everything up, detaching the pump and jamming the plug into place before much air could escape. Two more trips to the car to get their bedding and clothes. Camping was so much more work on your own. At least Daniel had helped her with the tent poles before he’d wandered off with the skank.